January 11, 2009

Golden Disappointment

They may be right, after all. We sat around the table. A small, forgettable uproar. I swear, I said softly. Oh, please, you blurted out. Then the laughing tears of breathless incredulity, the invisible tears of permanent distrust.

Is it so ridiculous that I would lie in bed and listen to the birds? Don’t you remember the rest of it. The golden years of disappointment. When we read all the sad poems, and I memorized the words.

Is it so ridiculous? I felt happier then, having been lonely since forever. Even when I pretend that your version of history is clearer than mine, the sadness creeps back like mold.

The reason I was so tired, I guess it never occurred to you to wonder after. Had I slept well? Was there something on my mind? Was I hunted in my dreams? Was there a crushing feeling when I woke and realized I could no longer fly around our little town with my shirt off?

No, it never occurred to you to ask.

And now we laugh at each other, lest we admit those small fractures in our humanity. And the mold that makes us ill from behind the walls of our memory.